Part 10

The circular tour of twenty-eight miles here mapped out does not take us very far afield. It follows the outer fringe of the southern suburbs, and is planned the more especially to afford the Londoner some idea of what the country adjoining the Surrey hills—soon, alas! to be swallowed up by the ever-extending bricks and mortar—is like. It may also prove valuable to those who are seeking a suitable home just beyond London’s smoke.

Starting from Kingston we make for Norbiton Church, and, leaving it to the right, take the next turning to the right beyond. This is Coombe Lane, and though not so direct as the turning just before Norbiton Church, is infinitely preferable, leading gently upwards along a lane with farms and a few scattered houses, and, passing under a railway bridge, coming, in two miles from Kingston Station, to the hamlet of Coombe. Turn here, when up the rise, to the right, where a sign-post marks the way to Malden. A fine coast down leads in a mile to Coombe and Malden Station and the commonplace modern settlement of New Malden.

Now straight ahead, past this spot, turning to the right again at a fork of the roads where a country inn, called the “Plough,” stands and points to Ewell. It is very pretty and rural here. Just after turning down this road we come to Old Malden, with its quaint red brick church on the right hand. Here a very beautiful lane, shaded by a fine avenue, leads on a down gradient for a mile and a quarter, with pretty views on the right to the valley of the not very charmingly named Hogsmill River, and with dense coppices and undergrowth fringing the left. This is the border of Worcester Park. Where this lane ends and joins a broad highway, running to right and left, turn to the left, coming in two miles to Ewell, where the Hogsmill River expands into a broad pond beside the village street, outside the gates of a beautiful park.

Notice the curious fishing temple built into the park wall, overhanging the pond. On the left-hand road, leading to London, is the modern parish church, with the romantically ivied tower of the old building still standing beside it. There are many and puzzling roads at Ewell, but, fortunately, there are many people about of whom to ask the way, and sign-posts are not wanting. If it were a lonely place they would be sought in vain. Take the road to Cheam, resisting all temptations to turn to the right. This brings us to Nonsuch Park, bordering the road on the left hand, and then into the old-world village of Cheam, where the new order of things is only just beginning to make itself felt. There are still numerous old boarded cottages here. The old church, like that of Ewell, has been pulled down, but the chancel still remains, near the new one, and one can look through a grating in the door and get a glimpse at the interior and its monuments well enough.

A mile and a quarter brings us to Sutton, whose High Street we cross just where the historic “Cock” coaching inn stood until pulled down a few years ago. Sutton is, perhaps, although very populous, one of the prettiest suburbs we have. After crossing the High Street the road presently goes steeply down to Carshalton. It is not too steep to coast, only be sure that no tradesmen’s light carts are in the way. Carshalton, with its broad ponds, fed by the Wandle, beside the road, is altogether delightful. Swans majestically sail the broad, if shallow, waters; weeping willows dip their long branches in the stream, and picturesquely wooded islands are dotted here and there. The small boys of Carshalton (“K’shalton,” they call it) are never tired of fishing here from the railings beside the dusty road, and not a few children of a larger growth may be seen casting a line. Now and again they bring out an old umbrella or a worn-out boot discarded by a passing tramp, but the trout, angled for by the thousand fishermen of the place, are coy; and even the usually headstrong “tiddler,” generally caught by the infantile piece of cotton, declines to be caught and immured in the pickle-bottle brought forth for him.

A circular iron railing in the roadway, between the church and the water, encloses a well called “Anne Boleyn’s,” from the tradition that the water first burst forth when her horse’s hoof sank in the then marshy ground.

Having refreshed yourself with a sight of these pleasant waters, continue to Beddington, whose ancient church, on a by-road to the left, has a wonderful store of ancient brasses. Unhappily, the church is not open for prayer, or for antiquaries, and search must be made for the keys. The road now rises, with craggy banks of sand on either side, and then comes to a modern and most elaborate inn, the “Plough.” The road to the right, called Plough Lane, is our route. It leads by pleasant ways, free from houses, to Purley, crossing Russell Hill, whence, beside a field of waving oats, the eye ranges across to Croydon and on to Sydenham Hill, where the Crystal Palace glitters in the sunshine in a manner fully befitting its name.

Down goes the road in a long descent to Purley, where we cross the old Brighton road, and, passing beneath the railway, gently ascend the fine highway to Riddlesdown. Here we are amid the Surrey hills, which spread out in a lovely panorama of hills and valleys to the right. Riddlesdown is a place for picnickers and school treats. Continuing past it, we come to the hamlet of Whyteleafe, and under a railway bridge up a steep lane to the left, which speedily becomes too steep to ride. Half a mile’s walk, and you can mount again.

Inquiring the way to Upper Warlingham along the puzzling by-lanes, that remote village, on its elevated tableland, is reached in less than a mile. When there, carefully ascertain the way to Fickles Hole, situated three miles and a half away, past the tiny village of Chelsham, by rather intricate by-lanes. This, although not so far from London, is an exceedingly lonely country, whose solitary lanes run through thick woods. Very beautiful they are, too.

Coming downhill past Chelsham Church on the left, continue bearing round to the left, and the small hamlet of Fickles Hole, or Fairchild, as it is sometimes called, comes in view, with the “White Bear Inn,” in whose garden stands the great white wooden effigy that used once to adorn the “White Bear,” Piccadilly, a coaching inn standing where the Criterion Restaurant now towers aloft. For many years it stood in the shrubbery of Fairchild House, and frightened the tramps. It once more represents the bruin (or brewing) interest. When strange dogs catch sight of the effigy they generally run away terrified.

Leaving Fickles Hole for Croydon, turn to the left, and by a long downhill lane over Addington Downs to Coombe (not to be confounded with the Kingston Coombe), taking the second turning to the left at a point two and a half miles away, where a sign-post clearly directs to Croydon. Three miles more, by a beautiful road, and we are in the heart of Croydon, whence train home.

EWELL TO MERSTHAM, GODSTONE, AND LINGFIELD

This route is the way by which Surbiton, Kingston, and Richmond cyclists reach the Brighton road. We will pick up the route at Ewell, which may be made a starting-point.

It is a long, long ascent toward the ridge of the North Downs, all the way from Ewell to Banstead Heath; not necessarily a tiring one unless a south wind is blowing, but when it blows great guns from that quarter, then—why, then go home and wait until it comes from some other direction! Fortunately, the road-surface is excellent, and, coming in the reverse direction, there is not, probably, such another lengthy and uninterrupted a coast-down in the neighbourhood of London.

Three miles from Ewell, Nork Park, distinguished from far away by its dense hillside woods, is passed on the right, and we come to the beginnings of Burgh Heath. Here, at a turning to the left, there stands, at some distance from the road, an ancient tumulus surrounded by fir trees for the wonderment of those who care to go and seek it. Burgh Heath is a portion of the wild, unenclosed uplands including Banstead Downs, Walton Downs, Epsom Downs, and Walton Heath. The cyclist may notice in passing a number of ramshackle wooden shanties in the midst of the heath. These are the property of the descendants of those squatters who placed them here so long ago that they have obtained a prescriptive right, and cannot be evicted.

At the turning to Tadworth, at a point known locally as “Wilderness Bottom,” keep to the left, unless, indeed, you desire to explore the village, which was notable a little while since as being the country retreat of Lord Russell, the Lord Chief Justice, who resided at Tadworth Court.

Passing through Kingswood, we come up and down hill, and finally down, to Gatton, against the lodge gates of Gatton Park, once the seat of Lord Monson, but now the property of Mr. Colman, of the famous mustard firm. There is a public footpath through this very beautiful park, and the house is shown from 2 p.m. to 4. Cycles, however, must be left within the lodge gates. But although the pictures are very fine, and the Marble Hall worth seeing, the average visitor will doubtless be much more interested in the so-called “Town Hall” of Gatton, a kind of miniature summer-house in the shape of a classic temple, situated in midst of a lovely clump of scented limes in front of the house. It should be said that Gatton is not, and never was, a village. It is just a big park, with a manorial church adjoining the house. But Gatton was a parliamentary borough, and returned two members to Parliament, from the reign of Henry the Sixth, until it was disfranchised by the first Reform Act in 1832. With the sole exception of Old Sarum it was the rottenest of “rotten boroughs,” and contained not a single elector. It was a “pocket borough,” that went with the Park as a property. Cobbett, who was nothing if not downright and brutally frank, says, “You pass Gatton, which is a very rascally spot of earth.” So it was, for the political power wielded by its owner was almost always exercised in the interest of bribery and corruption, and Lord Monson, who purchased the property in 1830 for £100,000, did so with the idea of securing a splendid investment, to return him about a hundred per cent.; but in less than two years Reform had destroyed its value. So frankly corrupt were those times that we can only wonder why Lord Monson did not cynically prefer a claim for compensation. The “Town Hall,” therefore, is merely a satirical kind of freak, while the inscription of “Vox populi suprema lex,” among others inscribed on the pedestal of the urn that forms the sole ornament of the building, is an example of a former owner’s sardonic humour.

Rather than face the dangerous descent of Reigate Hill, we will, on returning to the Park gates, turn to the right, and make for Merstham, a pretty old-world village on the main Brighton road; bearing continually to the right until opposite the “Feathers,” after which, take the road that dips down to the left, to Nutfield. This goes in winding fashion for two miles, and then comes up a short, sharp rise to the church, standing prominently on a high bank above the left-hand side of the road, and containing a stained-glass window designed by Burne Jones. The apoplectic hue of the figures’ faces is exceedingly unpleasing.

Past the church, where a road runs right and left, turn left, and so through the few houses of Nutfield to Bletchingley, down whose hillside street we come with caution. The old church has an odd tower, and contains a tomb with some pretty Elizabethan verses to Sir Thomas Cadwallader. Note the huge and bombastical monument to a former Lord Mayor of London, occupying the whole of the east end of the south aisle. The effigies of the worthy knight and his lady seem to represent them singing an operatic duet, while attendant marble cherubs, with swollen faces suggestive of toothache, shed stony tears.

In less than two miles we reach Godstone, and, passing its green and village pond, and the “White Hart,” its famous old hostelry, turn sharply to the left, and then take the first broad road to the right. This is the Oxted road; but instead of proceeding quite so far as that village, we will, in a mile and a half, turn to the right for Tandridge, a hamlet with an ancient church, in whose churchyard notice the monument to the wife of Sir Gilbert Scott, the architect who restored (and helped to spoil) so many of our cathedrals. See, also, the ancient oak internal framing of the tower, and the tragical tombstone to Thomas Todman, 1781, aged thirty-one years, at the side of the south porch. Thomas Todman was a smuggler, who was shot dead by a Custom House officer. The inscription is curious. Here it is, oddities of spelling and punctuation preserved:—

“Thou Shall do no Murder, nor Shalt thou Steal are the Commands Jehovah did Reveal but thou O Wretch, Without fear or dread of thy Tremendous Maker Shot me dead. Amidst my strength my sins forgive As I through Boundless Mercy hope to live.”

Downhill from Tandridge and into the Weald, turning to the left by the railway, and following it for a mile. Then bear to the right, and enter the pretty village of Crowhurst, with its interesting church showing to the right of the road. One of the curios it contains is an elaborate cast-iron tomb-“stone,” on the chancel floor, with figures and raised inscription, dated 1591—a relic of the days when iron was mined and smelted in this Wealden district. This is one of several memorials connected with the Gaynesford family, once Lords of the Manor here, and so remaining for over three hundred and sixty years. Their old manor-house, now a farmhouse, and a very picturesque and interesting one, called Crowhurst Place, is only a mile distant.

It will be noticed that many of the letters on the iron slab are either cast in reverse or upside down. Mrs. “Ane Forstr,” it can readily be seen, was exceedingly proud of her descent. A very odd fact is that exact replicas of this cast-iron slab are found distributed throughout Surrey, and even in some places in Sussex; not always in the most decorous positions. There is, for example, one used as a fire-back in the kitchen of a farm adjoining Crowhurst Church itself, and others have been noted at Ewhurst, Godstone, and Horley, where one formed part of the flooring of a baker’s oven, and occasionally produced breakfast-table terrors in the neighbourhood when the domestic loaf of bread was found to be impressed with “Her lieth,” “deceased,” and other portions of the design, including the shrouded body in the centre. The simple explanation of this odd distribution is that the iron-founding firm must have found the mould ready to their hands when cheap fire-backs were wanted, and so cast them in this guise. It mattered little when few people could read.

The great yew tree in Crowhurst churchyard is among the very largest in the land, measuring thirty-two feet nine inches round its immense trunk at a height of five feet from the ground. It is thought to be about twelve hundred years old, and although it was greatly mutilated over eighty years ago by some local vandals, who thought how fine a thing it would be to scoop out the interior and to fix table and benches inside, for the accommodation of some twenty persons, the tree still flourishes. When this wanton outrage was performed, an ancient cannon-ball was discovered in the very heart of the trunk.

Three miles more of country lanes, and our journey ends at Lingfield, a modern horse-racing centre. Here a train may be found for the return to town.

HEVER CASTLE, PENSHURST, AND TONBRIDGE

Here is a circular journey of the apparently modest total of thirty-three miles. If, however, we consider that a portion of it is hilly, and that the whole abounds with places to be seen, why, then, this is by no means a short route. Any portion of this irregularly shaped circle is within easy access of a railway station—Westerham, Edenbridge, Hever, Penshurst, Tonbridge of course—Hildenborough, Sevenoaks, and Brasted—all having stations of their own. It matters little from which point you begin the round. Let us, however, say Westerham, to which access is obtained on the railway by the branch line from Dunton Green. Westerham is a terminus, a large village or small town lying beneath the shadow of the immemorial hills, along whose steep sides, marked by a line of occasional ancient yews, goes the old Pilgrims’ Way between Winchester and Canterbury. The great historic figure connected with Westerham is General Wolfe, the victor of Quebec. There is a cenotaph to him in the parish church, and another in Squerryes Park, just outside the village. The vicarage, too, was his birthplace.

Westerham has nothing in common with modernity. It seems to have had a great era of building in the time of Queen Anne and of the early Georges, and to have exhausted itself in the effort; which is equal to saying that Westerham is delightfully old-world, with great red brick mansions and old gardens, and elbow-room everywhere. Here is the picturesque beginning of the river Darenth, crossing the road on its way down to Darenth and Dartford, to turn many mills, and to finally lose itself in the defiled waters of the lower Thames. The road descends from Westerham to Edenbridge, passing on the way the fork of the road where a guide-post directs by a short route to Chiddingstone, Hever, and Penshurst, _viâ_ Fair Elms. We will not turn here, but continue straight on to Crockham Hill, past the wild beauty of Crockham Hill Common, coming to the modern hamlet and church, set amid wide-spreading hop gardens. Two miles onward from this point we pass Edenbridge Station, and in another half-mile Edenbridge “Town” Station, and finally, in nearly another mile, come to Edenbridge itself, by no means a place of that metropolitan character the traveller would expect to find after all this heralding of railways.

Edenbridge is old-world and pretty, as surely it should be with such a name. It savours of Arcadian delights; and, indeed, when you have left Edenbridge Station behind you are come to a village that has little commerce with the outer world. True, folks hereabouts call Edenbridge “the town”; but there are towns and towns, and this is no centre of activity. The station is half a mile away, the railway conveniently out of sight of the village street, and life here flows as gently, and with as even a current, as that of the little river Eden, that gives the place its idyllic name.

Edenbridge—as surely is fitting—is set round about with apple-orchards, which render it as fragrant in spring as its neighbouring hop gardens do in the late summer months. The first thing, however, that attracts the Londoner’s attention is the quaintness of the one village street, with its tile-hung cottages and the sign of that comfortable old hostelry, the “Crown” Hotel, spanning the width of the road. Edenbridge also contains within its bounds quite a notable clock, of which the inhabitants are justly proud. No stranger can explore the recesses of the old church on the hillside without being presently buttonholed by a villager, who will take him round to where this timepiece shows its black face on the sturdy tower, and will point out to him the singular fact that all the V’s among the gilded numerals are turned the wrong way. But this is not all. The clock—like the heroine of the modern novel—has a “past.” It was made in 1738, and was the clock of St. George’s, Southwark, until 1808, when, on the old church being pulled down, it was sold to the vicar and churchwardens of Edenbridge. It should be a testimony to the health-giving properties of the Kentish air when it is said that since it came down from London it has never known a day’s illness, save only those slight ailments incidental to old age, that can be rectified by the application of a little oil.

When the cyclist has taken his survey of Edenbridge, his next place of pilgrimage should be Hever.

Though only three miles from Edenbridge, and but twenty-seven from Victoria, Hever is not so well known to the excursionist as it should be, when one considers how eminently beautiful and historical is its castle. Here, then, is the way to it. Coming to the bridge across the river Eden, we cross, and look out for a turning on the left hand by a boarded cottage. This leads across a railway and then along a pretty winding lane, bringing one easefully to the spot in two miles. The little Eden wanders erratically through the level lands, and all is quiet and rustic.

Look out for Hever, lest you miss it, for beside its grey old church, with the shingled spire, there is little else. Just a farm, a cottage or so, and an inn—the “Henry the Eighth,” formerly the “Bull and Butcher,” or, as legends would have it, the “Boleyn Butchered.” For this was the Kentish home of the beautiful and unfortunate Anne. They still tell you how Henry, ardent lover, used to come riding through the lanes to see his “dearest pet,” the fair chatelaine of Hever Castle, down yonder, amid the oozy water-meadows, and how, bogged in those miry ways, the rustics would pull the Defender of the Faith out of the sloughs. Here, too, in Hever Church may still be seen the altar-tomb and the magnificent brass of Sir Thomas Boleyn, my Lord of Wiltshire and Ormonde, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the ennobled and decorated father of that charmer. Another exquisite brass is that in the chancel to Margaret Cheyne, 1419.

Downhill from Hever Church, surrounded still by its ancient moat, is the unspoiled castle, a small but perfect example of the fortified manor-house of the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. The greater part of the present building was erected in the later years of Henry the Sixth, and was added to in Elizabeth’s time. The Boleyns first became connected with it about 1460, when Sir Geoffrey Boleyn, mercer and Lord Mayor of London, purchased the ruined place and commenced to build anew; but before he could complete this reconstruction he was gathered to his fathers, and it remained for his son Sir Thomas—father of the ill-fated Anne—to complete the work Sir Geoffrey had begun.

It is a private residence, and the interior is very charily shown to strangers—on Wednesdays only. The exterior and the moat, however, are always readily accessible, and are very well worth seeing. The lichened castle walls, with their time-stained masonry and vivid patches of red brick, are extraordinarily picturesque, and the windows, occurring at irregular intervals, with the clustered chimneys and mantling ivy, give the place a romantic quaintness all its own. To complete the picture, apple-orchards face two sides of the moat.

The lanes wind greatly, but are merely undulating, on the route to Chiddingstone, two and a half miles distant. Chiddingstone is generally found to be a dream of beauty by enthusiastic visitors; and the visitor to this lovely hamlet cannot help being enthusiastic.